The Heroes of Snowspire Village: Legacy
by ZombieTed
Summary: Dad always told us that for every choice, there's a consequence. What he failed to mention was the fact that sometimes, you have to face the consequences of someone else's decision. Sometimes, the only thing you've done wrong is been born to someone who made someone else angry. And our Dad made a lot of people angry. Post-Fable:TLC. Children of Moral/Good Hero. Reviews appreciated.


So, the only explanation I can offer about this one is that the massive time gap between Fable and Fable 2 leaves a lot of room for conjecture about what happened after the Hero of Oakvale did his thing. So, I might do a series of stories that does just that. Maybe. I at least have a plot in mind for _this_ one, so we'll see where that goes.

With that said, please enjoy the tale of the Heroes of Snowspire Village.

The Fable franchise and its associated creative properties belong to Big Blue Box, Lionhead Studios, Microsoft Game Studios, and Peter Molyneux. No infringement of any copyright is intended, and I make no monetary profit from this fan-created story.

* * *

The cullis gate glowed brightly, and the figures of a whole company of men materialized on the blue disk, several of them clutching their coats about them at the wave of cold.

"Cor, blimey, s'cold here!" one whispered.

"Ssh!" another hissed, bumping the first with his elbow. "We're s'pposed t'be quiet, like!"

At the head of the group, a large, formidable-looking man cleared his throat, barely the slightest small noise, but all chatter ceased immediately.

"Gentlemen," he said, his voice a breath of a whisper but still managing a deep rumble. "Let us not forget why we're here."

They all nodded, and one spoke. "Right, Milord. We're right behind you."

Nodding, the self-professed Lord set out through the town. He would never let his men see, but the chill was having just as much an effect on him as the group at his heels. He had been to Hook Coast several times, but Snowspire Village made the cold climate of the port town seem like a chilly fall day. His breath misted before him as he clutched the pommel of the sword strapped to his back, a large, golden blade that occasionally shimmered with the power of the lightning it supposedly controlled. As they mounted a snow-covered staircase, a guard descended from the top.

"Oi," he said when he spotted their large group. "If you lot are looking for the tavern, you passed it on your way in."

"We have business with one of your citizens," the Lord said in a deep, commanding voice. "We will only be a moment."

The guard eyed them suspiciously from under the brim of his hat, crossing his hands in front of him. "And just who are you?"

He glared at the guard. "I am the Lord of Bloodstone, and one of your citizens has committed a grievous crime against my people. We have come to discuss the matter with him."

"If one of our people has broken a law of yours, you should talk to the sher – "

The guard's words were cut off as a small signal from the Lord sent an arrow flying into his neck, turning his next words into a gargle before he fell to his knees, gasping and lurching on the ground.

"Shall I end his misery, Milord?" One of his men nocked another arrow, but the Lord held a hand up.

"Let him suffer. Let us not waste valuable resources on pointless endeavors."

The bow was lowered and the arrow returned to the man's quiver, but a few shared uneasy looks as they frequently did when the Lord displayed his infamous dispassion for life in general. Leaving the guard to a pool of his own blood, they continued their ascent, their footfalls muffled by the freshly fallen snow.

"Quietly," the Lord said as they neared their target, an innocuous little cabin tucked between two other equally plain homes, but this one in particular held his prize, his nemesis, the architect of the suffering of two generations of his family.

Unsheathing his sword, the Lord held it aloft, and there was a thunderous crackle before a massive bolt of lightning descended on the house, filling the air with the scent of burnt ozone and obliterating the middle of the house. Shrieks came from all around, including inside the house, and as doors slammed open all around, the Lord pointed his sword at the burning home.

"Slaughter them all," he said. "End the Gladiator's legacy."

…

_Deep in the forests of Albion lay the small town of Oakvale, unchanged by time and untouched by the sword._

_Here lived a boy and his family. A boy dreaming of greatness, of one day being a Hero…._

Everyone's heard the story, right? From humble beginnings, a small boy is tragically yanked from his idyllic life in a small village in the middle of a forest and thrust into the life of a Hero, where he goes on to rid the world of one of its darkest menaces and otherwise be an all-around amazing gent. Stories of his heroism are told around campfires to reassure frightened travelers that the roads are safe, bards sing ballads of his greatness to drunken tavern-goers and rake in the cash, and children fall asleep to tales of the Liberator, later the Gladiator, who chases away bad dreams and things that go bump in the night.

"Brom, straighten your elbow a little. You get more impact that way."

"Like this?"

"You got it. And don't be afraid to put your whole body into the swing. You'll knock 'em down and give yourself time to recover."

"Okay, Dad."

For my sister and I, alternate versions are told, of a man named Ted, also known as Chicken Chaser, who spent his early days as a Hero seeing how far he could punt chickens through the streets of Bowerstone and nearly soiling himself when his first great Quest involved wasps, of which he still remains deathly afraid.

If nothing else, Dad is humble.

"Daddy, did you see!? That arrow went right through my other one!"

"Good job, Scarlet. Your better with a bow than _I_ am."

Scarlet, my dear older sister, blushes under Dad's praise, though we all know he's exaggerating. We once watched Dad behead four invading bandits with one arrow, despite just about every law of nature and the universe saying he couldn't. And that's not to mention that nearly every year, we head off to Knothole Glade and watch him demolish the competition at the annual shooting competition. Still, whenever he heaps praise on my sword work, saying that I put him to shame just holding the blade, I can't help but feel a swell of pride. Maybe he overdoes it, but he never seems to be indulging us some childish fantasy; he genuinely believes we're going to be Heroes someday.

"Teddy beeeaaaar," a voice calls, and Scarlet groans. Even I can't stop a small roll of my eyes. Dad pointedly ignores our reactions as Helen, our delightful stepmother, rounds the corner behind the house and takes in the sight before her, Scarlet with her bow aimed at a wooden dummy, and me with my sword ready to tear into a straw facsimile of a bad guy. "It's nearly noon, dear. That meeting with the guild master."

Dad nods, standing from his seat on a nearby rock, rising to his full massive height. While not quite as big as, say, Thunder or Twinblade, Dad is still imposing at around seven feet, with muscles as thick as my midsection that are obviously used to lifting the giant weapons he keeps on our wall. These days, though, his weapon of choice is an old, old blade call Avo's Tear, which is light enough that even I can lift it, meaning his powerful muscles can swing it with enough force to cleave a balverine's head off (and he has, many times).

Slinging the weapon sheath over his armored body, Dad walks over to us, his muffled footsteps still loud with his heavy plate armor draped over his body. Scarlet gives a little sniff, clutching her bow to her chest as Dad kneels and removes a gauntlet to pat her head, leaning in to kiss her forehead.

"Now, now, no bawling, alright?" he asks. "I'll be back in a day, two at most."

"But I'll miss you," Scarlet whines. I walk over, and Dad gives me a pat on the head as well, though he thankfully skips the kiss to the forehead. A twelve-year-old boy has no business getting kissed on the forehead by anyone, let alone his dad. He smiles and stands.

"Two days," he says, holding up two fingers to emphasize the point. "Then, when I get back, we'll go to Oakvale, and you two can do the Chicken-Kicking Contest. Sound good?"

Scarlet instantly perks up, and I can't help but grin as well, glancing over at her.

"You're going down this time!" she taunts. I just stick my tongue out at her. Witty comebacks and banter were never my strong suit. Dad says I get that from him; he's more a man of action.

Dad gives us one last hug (diminished by the two inches of platemail hanging from him, but it's a thoughtful gesture) and he makes his way to the cullis gate hand in hand with Helen, who seems to be overdoing the sappy "I love you so much, I'll miss you, come back soon" routine as she practically hangs off of Dad's armored arm.

"I hate her," Scarlet grumbles, nocking another arrow and quickly launching it into her target's head, right where the nose would be. "She's a foul woman."

I sigh, leaning my simple iron sword against the wall of the little practice paddock we use. "She's really not all that bad," I admit, though it pains me to do so. Annoying and overbearing Helen can be sometimes, but her heart seems to be in the right place. She's just…not Mum.

"'Not all that bad'?" Scarlet scoffs. "She's a nightmare. Acting all lovey-dovey, doting all over us, dragging me to Bowerstone North for that Fall market and saying it's 'Quality Girl Time'? And she's always going on about how you're 'just like your father when he was young' like she _knows_. Dad didn't marry her until they were thirty-two!"

She tosses a stray lock of red hair away from her face and tucks it back into her messy ponytail. Dad says Scarlet is the spitting image of Auntie Theresa, except she has Dad's bright blue eyes. Both of us do, actually. He says I look like Grandpa Brom, with light brown hair and what he calls a 'stocky build'. All that means is I'm one missed workout away from getting fat.

We practice for a little longer, but our hearts aren't really in it. It's always like this after Dad leaves on one of his quests. Helen calls it 'melancholy'. Scarlet calls it 'Helencholy', since we're stuck only with our stepmum. She's clever with words like that. We hang up our weapons in the shed (Dad says we can't hang them on the walls in the house until we've decapitated a hobbe) and make our way down to the tavern at the base of Snowspire Village.

"Well, if it isn't the Terrible Two themselves!" the barman (whose name I can never seem to remember) calls out jovially as we walk in. He slams his meaty hand on the bar in front of two stools. "Hop up, hop up! The usual?"

We clamber onto the stools, and in seconds, we both have steaming hot mugs of spiced cider. I lean over mine and inhale the delicious apple aroma. Scarlet tentatively takes a sip, but sets her mug down again.

"Why does he always have to heat the stuff to practically boiling?" she mutters, looking out across the tavern. It's a small building (like just about every other place in Snowspire), but it's cozy, and currently very occupied by some farmers celebrating a successful harvest. To this day, I'm not totally sure what they farm, but it must be a very determined crop to make it in the near-constant snow this place gets.

"Two days," Scarlet says with a small sigh. I shrug.

"He's been gone longer before."

She nods, resting her chin on her fist, propped up on her elbow. "I know, it's just…do you ever get that feeling, like something _really_ bad is going to happen?"

I shrug, shaking my head. "Not really. You said yourself, I'm…reactionary," I sound out the long word. She giggles and shakes her head.

"That's true," she says, tousling my hair. "But it works for you, somehow." She takes another tentative sip of her drink, which has apparently cooled down enough for her. "It's just…I had this dream."

"Uh-oh," I say, chuckling. "Another future dream."

"Oh, you hush," she pokes my nose. "They've all come true before."

"Anyone can guess that there's going to be a blizzard in Snowspire Village, Scar."

"And what about the fact that I've never failed to predict who's going to win the Arena? Or that time Dad almost lost his arm to that balverine in Witchwood? _And_ – "

"Alright, alright," I say, holding my hands up. "What was this one about?"

She shudders. "There's this great big flash of light, and an explosion," she says softly. "And then…fire and people screaming."

I shiver a little, though the tavern is quite warm. Taking a quick swig of cider, I turn back to her. "Alright, it does sound scary," I admit, "but have you ever stopped to think it could just be a bad dream? Not every dream you have is necessarily a sign of the future."

She shakes her head. "I know the normal ones from the future ones. There's just this…feeling that I get."

I sigh. "Well, talk to Dad when he gets home – "

"Don't you get it?" she interrupts, her voice low and tense. "It happens _while he's gone_. I'm not…trying to completely freak you out, but just be careful."

I nod. "Alright, alright," I say again. "Super careful, always vigilant. I'll even sleep with my sword next to my bed, how's that sound?"

She rolls her eyes but manages a meek smile. "I just don't want anything happening to you, little brother."

"Yeah, then it'd just be you and our dear stepmum," I say. She grimaces.

"Ugh, I'd rather not think about that," she grumbles, and I laugh.

…

After her little story, I can't sleep a wink, and every time I doze off, I snap right back awake, fearing some sort of imminent attack.

I suppose that's what saves my life.

Standing near the window and pouring myself a glass of water, I see a huddled mass of figures outside. One steps forward from the group and raises some sort of staff or sword, which starts to glow blue.

"Scar, wake up!"

I dash for her bed and grab her around the waist. She's already half-awake, and as I lift her, she wraps her arms around my shoulders, clinging to me as I jump toward a window, feeling the glass break, but the noise is muted by an even louder shattering, crackling sound. Then, everything is blue light and sound, and my jump carries us much farther than I anticipated as we're carried away by the force of our house exploding. Someone is screaming. It might be my sister, me, both of us, or –

Helen.

"Helen!" I say, but I barely hear my voice. My feet are already going numb, and there's this tingling all across my face and body. I start back for the house. Whatever our opinions on Helen, we can't let her burn to death.

Someone grabs my wrist. I turn and see Scarlet talking, saying something, but the words seem to echo strangely, not matching up with her lip movements. She points in some direction and gives me a tug, but what about Helen? She shakes her head, and I don't even remember speaking my question. She gives another point to the house, where I can see men with swords swarming, smashing windows and engaging the town guards.

Helen….

I let Scarlet drag me to my feet, which I can't even feel, and we stagger past the wreckage of our house, our life, now up in smoke, and another blue light glows. For a moment, I think it's another lightning bolt, but we've reached the cullis gate. In seconds, everything vanishes, and the air shifts from clean, cold, and dry to a warm, balmy summer night.

That's what it takes for me to puke.

I vaguely register some sort of outburst from Scarlet as I empty my stomach contents onto the pavement beneath our feet, but I just shake my head, looking around. A guard stares at us in utter confusion, as well as a few late night passerby, though from their staggering gait, I imagine we're just a drunken hallucination to them.

Waving off the guard, we set out through the streets of Bowerstone, one goal in mind.

When Dad's away, we go to Mum.

…

In the years following his second and final defeat of Jack of Blades, Dad tells us, he settled down in Bowerstone and married our mum (our real one, not Helen), but he says he couldn't stand it in the city, surrounded by admirers from morning to night, never able to find a moment of peace, to just sit and reflect without someone knocking on his door or proposing to him right there on the streets of Bowerstone (which, he stressed, happened at least twice a day). So, one day, when I was about four and Scarlet was just about to turn seven, Dad announced over breakfast that he would like to pack the family up and move to Snowspire Village in the Northern Wastes, saying that no one had heard of him there, so he wasn't likely to be mobbed by fans.

Mum wasn't thrilled.

One of the most heated arguments in the history of our family broke out, stretching for hours and attracting the attention of more than a few passersby. Mum, for her part, insisted that she had a life in Bowerstone, friends, family, a part-time job, and she didn't want to pack it all up and move to cold, desolate Snowspire.

A valid point.

Dad, however, argued that he was miserable, that coming home from long journeys and tiring Quests to a bustling city full of relentless admirers was hardly relaxing. Moving to a remote area in Albion was an option, but he didn't want to leave his family in the middle of the woods when he ventured out, lest they be set upon by bandits or creatures. Snowspire Village was remote but also inhabited by plenty of people and guards, none of whom would swarm poor Dad and pester him when he got home from his travels.

Also a valid argument.

The debate continued into the late evening hours, when I was starting to get sleepy but wanted to stay up to see how it ended. I remember feeling sad that Dad was sad, but I also didn't want to leave my friends at school, and I didn't want Mum to be sad if we went somewhere else. Finally, Dad…pretty much snapped. The pressure had been building up for years, it seems, but he'd been hiding it all behind his gentle smile and infinite patience. But, as he always insisted, he was just a man. Listening to his wife disagree with him so vehemently, refusing to budge on the one thing he'd gotten passionate about in their entire relationship, he threw his hands up, declared their relationship over, and packed his things and left, carting us along with him.

They haven't spoken since. I'm pretty certain Dad regrets how things were left, and from the few times we've been to visit Mum, she wishes she'd handled things differently, but every time we've talked to either of them about reconciling, they've just shaken their heads and said something like, "Things can't go back to how they were before."

She's still awake, her front door thrown open to the muggy summer evening, doubtless hoping for some kind of cross draft; Bowerstone summers can be murder. Lounging on the porch and smoking a pipe of some kind, Mum looks the same as she always has, like at any moment, she could just lay someone out on the ground in one punch. Her honey-blonde hair cascades down her shoulders, looking unkempt as always, and her dark brown eyes have this slight glint in them, like she's always up to something and just waiting for you to realize it. As much as I hate to say it about my Mum, she is a beautiful woman, with a slender face and sharp features. It's no wonder Dad picked her over all of his countless admirers, though it also had something to do with the fact that she didn't fall all over herself trying to impress him. Indeed, when he introduced himself at the armor smith where she worked as the Gladiator, she replied with "Big bloody deal, do you want a damn cookie?"

It was love at first sight.

As we approach, Scarlet apparently tries to call out for Mum, but all she manages is a feeble little rasp. Still, Mum's eyes dart toward us, and when she spots us, she's on her feet and flying toward us in seconds.

"Scar, Brom?" she asks, falling to her knees and hugging us. "What's happened? Are you alright? Are you hurt?" She peers at me, and whatever she sees concerns her enough that she's on her feet and dragging us to the house. "C'mon," she says. "Let's patch you lot up, and then you'll tell me everything."

For the first time in what feels like hours, but can't have been more than a few minutes, I feel safe again.

…

We explain what we know as Mum dabs a stinging potion to my face, shoulder, and chest. Apparently, jumping through a window can leave one pretty bloodied up, what with all the broken glass, and the landing sure didn't help matters. To her credit, Scarlet (who was unscathed thanks to my heroics) thanks me with a kiss on the cheek and a promise that she owes me one.

Oh, I won't forget that one.

"A lightning bolt from a sword?" Mum asks, looking thoughtful. "Sounds more like an augmented weapon than a Will user. And an old weapon at that, likely an Old Kingdom heirloom. Did they notice you escape?"

Scarlet shakes her head. "They were fighting the guards when we slipped past them, but they'll probably notice our bodies aren't there," she shivers a bit as she says this, and Mum hugs her, standing and looking around the house.

"Alright," she says. "We'll need to run, quickly."

"Run?" Scarlet asks. I've been instructed not to talk until my wounds heal, as there are a number of them on my face, though Scarlet thankfully is asking all the pertinent questions.

"Whoever's behind this has it in for you, and if they don't find your bodies, they'll know you ran," Mum explains, raising her voice as she hurries up the stairs, and the sounds of drawers and cabinets opening can be heard. "The first place they'll look for you is here."

"Damn," Scarlet whispers, standing as well. I gingerly get to my feet just as Mum returns, setting two rucksacks on the table and slinging a third over her shoulder. She passes me a set of clothes and another to Scarlet.

"Get dressed," she says, moving to a cabinet and withdrawing two swords, a bow, and a crossbow, then a large blacksmith's hammer that she slings into her belt. She passes the bow and a sword to Scarlet, and I get the crossbow and the other sword.

"Mum, where did – "

"When you've been married to your father, you learn to prepare for just about anything," she says flatly, and Scarlet and I share a look as we fasten our clothes, shrugging in unison. Dad does have a way of attracting all manner of trouble.

"So, where are we going, Mum?" Scarlet asks as I lace up a boot, moving a little gingerly. The wounds have closed, but as Dad always says, Heroes scar just as easily as anyone else, and I can already feel the crisscrossing gashes across the left side of my face and body hardening into scar tissue, soon to make me look like a sculpture of a person that was dropped on one side.

Well, some girls love scars, right?

"This is Hero business," Mum says, holding out a Guild Seal. "And we've got a whole guild of 'em just down the road."

* * *

Fun Fact: The decision to make the Gladiator divorced was born out of my inability to move my Bowerstone wife to my new house in Snowspire Village due to game limitations. I thought to myself that she probably has a life in Bowerstone and doesn't want to leave it just because I want her to. So, I imagined myself divorced from her and just let her keep the house.

For the record, Brom is 12, Scarlet is 14, and their Mum is 30. Gladiator is probably 40 or so.


End file.
